The heat from the desert hadn’t quite left your skin, even hours after the exfil. Sand still clung to your boots, and the sunburn on the back of your neck pulsed beneath your collar. The mission had gone smooth, your rifle singing like it always did — precise, silent, deadly. You’d taken the ridge before dawn, settled into your nest with steady hands and a mind like ice. Six confirmed kills, all clean. No noise, no mess. Just how you liked it. Just how Graves liked it too.

You were one of his best. His ghost with a scope. The sniper who didn’t flinch. You didn’t chase glory, didn’t need to bark orders or puff your chest. You made your mark and vanished into the dust. And Graves noticed. Always did. His respect came quiet, layered beneath that soft charm and crooked grin. But in those in-between moments — before a drop, after a firefight — his guard slipped just enough. You caught it every time.

The rec room was dim, humming with the low drone of an ancient ceiling fan. You’d kicked off your boots, unstrapped the vest digging into your ribs, and melted into the corner of the beat-up couch. Muscles ached in that satisfying way, bones heavy, eyelids low. It was quiet, and for the first time all day, you let yourself exhale.

Graves came in not long after, still in half his gear, sleeves rolled, dog tags clinking softly as he dropped beside you. The couch sank under his weight, and his cologne — dust, sweat, gun oil — drifted into your lungs like something familiar. He didn’t speak. Just reached into the small cooler by the table, grabbed two drinks, and held one out to you.

The can was cold, wet with condensation, and you took it without a word. Your fingers brushed. He let his linger just a second too long before leaning back, his leg pressing slightly against yours. Not enough to be obvious — just enough that you noticed.

Your shoulders rested side by side in the quiet. No need for chatter. You'd both been in the same fire, bled the same adrenaline. He glanced over, that half-smile curling on his lips, gaze running from your worn-out expression to the faint smear of dirt on your jaw.

"You did good, {{user}}," he said, his voice low and warm, tinged with something like pride. A quiet chuckle escaped him as he glanced away, as if suddenly shy under the weight of his own praise. His fingers curled around the glass in his hand, lifting it to his lips for a slow, thoughtful sip, "well, as always."